


The Alphabet

by UnshoddenShipper



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Astrology, Demisexuality, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Flirting, Fluff and Humor, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Panic Attacks, Sibling Bonding, Sleepy Cuddles, Sloppy Makeouts, Smoking, Swearing, Team as Family, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-12
Updated: 2015-08-23
Packaged: 2018-04-14 06:46:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4554732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UnshoddenShipper/pseuds/UnshoddenShipper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>26 short stories and little moments, featuring Dick Simmons and his relations with Dexter Grif.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A - H

**Author's Note:**

> If you saw a tag and you're like, "What! That's not here! D:" Don't worry! I'm just about done with the other two chapters, and they'll be posted this week.

“A” is for addict. 

“Hey, stranger.” He halts lighting up, speaks around the cig. You’ve been apart minutes. “Don’t tell me you’re here to chew my ass again.”

“I haven’t chewed your ass!” you cry, indignant. “If I did maybe you’d listen to me for once.”

He groans dramatically, rolling his head back.

“No, listen to me, asshole.” You tilt your head to grab his attention, and you get it. He meets your eye, mouth a firm line on his dumb, stubborn face.

“I try and reason with you with statistics and credible medical sources, and you don’t care.” You pause, wait for his rebuttal. He just blinks, so you take a breath and press on. “ **Big** surprise. But, has it occurred to you that it worries me? That I don’t..” you falter- vaguely gesturing. Grif shakes his head the tiniest bit, eyebrow raising. You furrow your brow, look from his face down to your boots. 

He waits patiently for you, gaze steady. It takes two breaths, but you straighten again, hands on your hips. “That I care about you and I don’t want you getting sick? And dying? Because I don’t, Grif. I mean I do. I _do_ care about you, and I _don’t_ want you dying.”

He tosses up his hands, and the lighter is blue. “I’m not gonna fuckin’ _die_ , Simmons. Come on.”

“Will you please quit smoking?” And it’s the first time you’ve straight-up asked. “For me?”

He curls his lip, sucks a long breath through his nose. He and sighs it out. At length, Grif rolls his eyes to the sky, taking the cigarette out of his mouth. You replace it with your lips.

\- - -

“B” is for babe, which dictionaries define as: 

_“An affectionate form of address, typically for someone with whom one has a sexual or romantic relationship.”_

It’s a noun.

It’s your third favorite word, ranked beside _archipelago_ and your first name when Grif says it.

You love “babe” for two reasons: the first being you never imagined somebody would call you that. The second, because it’s special when Grif does; for the most part, you’re still Simmons. You’re only Babe when you’re alone- not because he’s a douche or anything- you’re just kind of shy and deep down so is he. One other person, once, has heard Grif call you that and it wasn’t even Donut or Tucker. It was Kai, who looked like Christmas had come early.

Grif calls you babe when he leans- leans against you; leans your foreheads together; leans in to kiss some part of you. He calls you babe when you tell him tender things, or exchange gifts that trigger unironic, human emotions. He calls you babe when you’re teeth and hands and grinding hips, pinned against walls and beds and ground.

\- - -

“C” is for compliment. Donut emphatically grabs your sleeves, telling you how you were _born_ to wear turtlenecks; says it really flatters your figure and all kinds of other nice things. You redden, give a high pitched, jumbled thanks- flattery always throws you off, though you’ve gotten better through the years. Hang around Donut long enough and you’ll get all kinds of sneak attacks like this sprung on you.

Your eyes slide past chattering Frank and catch Grif’s pleased expression- watching the two of you, leaning against the doorframe. He gives an eyebrow flash, and there’s an answering tug at the corner of your mouth. What a jackass. Maybe you’ll give **him** a neck full of hickeys.

\- - -

“D” is for damn. This seemed like a good idea at the time but now it’s- just embarrassing. You pinch the bridge of your nose, cupping your robot overlord elbow with your fleshy hand. Heat crawls up your neck and blooms at your ears. You drag the prosthetic down- down your face; down to rub the nape of your neck; down to hang at your side. You watch him, awaiting his reaction.

Grif’s jaw is hanging open, staring down at the flowers in his hands- a bouquet of hops and orange African daisies. And after a breath, his face lights up. He slings an arm around your neck, pulls you down so he can plant a loud smacker- _”Mmwah!”_ \- under the corner of your jaw. 

“You sap,” he grins, letting his arm fall down to wrap around your waist, hauling you against him.

Face standard issue red, you struggle in vain to keep the smile off your mouth. You shrug, loosely, and bring your hands to rest on his shoulders. 

“Yeah.”

\- - -

“E” is for ego, and that is one... clusterfuck of an issue in your life. You’ve had to unlearn a lot. It’s ironic that the safest you ever felt was when you left for the army; cut off contact with your parents completely. It’s been 13 years, and there is nothing that could make you regret that decision.

After a while you had some of those cheesy self-help books shipped to Blood Gulch. And you know what? That was the first big step, really. The more you learned about manipulation and emotional abuse, the more you were able to detangle yourself from a lot of bullshit weighing you down, fucking with your head. It’s been gradual, but things have gotten better. A lot better.

You still slip up sometimes- it’s frustrating, when you notice yourself doing it. Second guessing yourself. Seeing only negatives when you look at yourself. Thinking worth is something you have to earn.

You’re working on it.

\- - -

“F” is for fidelity. 

You wake up first; slowly, sighing. Your quarters are dark, and it's chilly, but you’re snug under two layers of blankets- just another advantage to doubling up with Grif. The covers are drawn up to your eyes, and you’re the big spoon, molded bonelessly around him. You nuzzle the back of his neck. 

It’s a pretty standard Wednesday. 

It’s after lunch and you return from patrol, turning Jensen and the rest of your squad free as you hop out the Warthog. Looking around, you see troops bustling this way and that; the barracks full of contrasting, color coded people. Spotting Tucker, Donut and Grif standing uselessly around the loading bay, Tucker beckons you over. He's practically glowing as you take off your helmet, tucking it below your arm.

“Simmons! You just missed it!”

“Oh yeah?”

“ _OH_ yeah,” Donut chimes in, elbowing Grif, who gives him half-assed scowl.

“What I miss?”

“Oh you know,” Donut shrugs, teeth inhumanly white. “Grif’s a heartbreaker.”

“We walk in on Casanova here telling some poor guy to take a hike!” Tucker plants his hands on his hips, grins gleefully at you. “He said, ‘I have a thing’!”

Grif’s expression is bored when he looks from Tucker, to you. Gradually, you tilt your chin up, smile stretching wide, and smug. You waggle your eyebrows. Grif’s cheeks flush dark and your friends erupt into jeering.

\- - -

“G” is for gentle. Neither of you are with words, and it doesn’t matter. You swear and argue and call each other names but there’s no heat behind it, no intent to hurt. You know that- you’ve always known that and so has he, and you’re not worried about the gentleness of your mouth.

You’re worried about this fucking arm.

Things aren’t fragile; you’re just rough. It’s been a long road, paved in a decade’s worth of crushed, shattered, torn, ruined things. You have to be careful, tightening the bolts in machines so they don’t snap like toffee. You've practiced and practiced so the incidents are next to nill, but you worry.

You worry.

Grif knows you do. He rubs your prosthetic and tells you not to be nervous because he’s not. He uncurls the cybernetic fingers, places that hand on his hip. Over his heart. Around his pulsing neck and whispers _See? We’re good, buddy._

_We’re good._

\- - -

“H” is for hopeless, and you can acknowledge that much to yourself. 

Lazy, oblivious, apathetic, over dramatic, overprotective, underwhelming as he is...

Grif is the only one for you. 

You’re two sides of the same coin. Two bitchy magnets, drawing and repelling each other. You met him in basic training, and on that unre-fucking-markable day, it was like you _found_ something. The planets _aligned_ when you shook hands with this man, and ceased being a party of one. And were you ever? Were you literally made for this? Years spent alone more half of a whole than anything?

You watch him dick around with Tucker; helmets off, trading stories. You’re all in armor, but you can tell from where he’s gesturing they’re talking about his tattoos. Perhaps it’s egocentric of you, but your favorite- the one you like even more than the pattern across his collarbones? It's high on his right shoulder, above the Hawaiian armband. 

It’s your name.


	2. I - N

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I lied- I thought this fic would be three chapters, but these are really getting away from me, so. D: We'll see but I can guarantee this sucker won't be done by the next update.

“I” is for inventory, which isn’t going to log itself. But Grif makes a very reasonable argument, perched on a crate, tugging you towards him by your linked fingers. Making out is so damn difficult in armor, but you’ll manage. You always do.

The armory is deserted, and Armonia is asleep. But Grif is buzzing with energy, and it’s winding you up, too. One of his arms reaches up, fingers threading through your hair; the other wraps around your shoulders. You keep your cyborg hand clutching the crate he sits on- it’s safer there, no chance to… To hurt him.

Your flesh and bone hand cradles the back of Grif’s neck as he leans up, and you bend down. It’s lips pecking and brushing, steady and warm and grounding– but it grows softer– wetter, welcoming, mmm. You step between his legs as he spreads them, wind your fingers through his hair as he tilts his head back. Your heart is palpitating, and you can feel every beat in your neck as your face grows hot. Gently, _gently_ as you possibly _can_ you bring your prosthetic hand to cup his jaw. He bites at your lower lip– not a nip, a bite. Slow and easy. You lick back.

God, you’re breathing heavy; eyes fluttering open as his tongue slides against yours, rolling back into your head as he presses closer. But you’re already flush– chest to chest– hip to hip. He huffs through his nose, shoulders shaking, and you pull away just enough to see him in focus.

“What’chu laughin’ at?” Thickly, hushed, swallowing.

Grif’s panting just a bit; resumes stroking fingers through your hair. “I like the noises you make,” he says simply, grinning at the freckles below your eye, and you’re filled with that warmth you get when he mutters these quiet things.

\- - -

“J” is for justice. Matthews and Bitters don’t seem to get what’s so funny, but you just can’t keep a straight face. Bitters has a split lip and a look that could kill; Matthews sports a yellowing bruise on his cheek, wringing his hands nervously and they’re both covered in white cake with raspberry filling.

Grif looks them both up and down. He heaves a shoulder-hitching sigh.

"You wanna tell me what happened here?”

“It was my fault, sir!” Matthews chirps, and Bitters groans.

“Bullshit.” He's glaring at the yellow recruit, then at his Captain. “You saw it. One of those FAC assholes was fucking around in the mess hall, so I hit him. End of story.”

“And the cake, Bitters? The cake?”

“Things got… out of hand.”

Grif folds his arms. “Well Lieutenant, you wasted dessert, and for that you deeply disappoint me. But he really was shit-talking Matthews here?” He inclines his head to the boy in question, who keeps making as if to speak but faltering; as though he’d interrupt but couldn’t do it to Grif.

“Yes, sir,” Bitters nods.

Grif hums, face kept skillfully bored and neutral. “I see. Very good, Bitters. You’re gonna clean up the cake, but other than that, you’re bolth free to go.”

“Sir?” Matthews looks stricken.

“I said hit the road!”

His recruits take off down the empty, grey hall to the Mess. Grif watches them go until they’re out of earshot, before lacing his fingers atop his head, and turning around to face you. His lips are compressed, eyes wide.

“That was too fuckin’ real.” He sounds haunted.

You can’t stand it any longer– you snort and clamp a hand over your mouth. Your shoulders won’t stop shaking. “Should I go congratulate them?” you ask through your fingers.

“Nah man, I thought Bitters and Palomo were a thing?”

“I did too, but–" You look past him, at the retreating soldiers, then to your partner’s deeply perturbed eyes. “Talk about history repeating itself.”

“That was different,” Grif says quickly.

You cock your head, and drop your hand to fold your arms across your chest. “Yeah? How the hell was that different?”

Grif holds up a finger. “One, we were in Basic.” Second finger. "Two, that asshole called you a–"

You lean in for emphasis. “You threw pie at him! And punched him in the face!”

“Exactly! It was the opposite order from this.”

“Oh my god, Grif, this _is too_ the same.”

“Whatever.” 

Swiftly, you cup his jaw, and swoop down to give him a smooch on his lips. You pull away, and share a grin together. It was just a little thing, but... Grif takes a breath, thick hands grasp your hips, and he's leaning in.

Closing your eyes, your lips crush on his again, and it’s firm; familiar. It’s warm. You place your blood and bone hand on his chest, behind his dog tags. You can feel the heartbeat against your palm, through his shirt; it’s elevated, in time with your own. Your mouths move languidly together, he hums low and pleased, your face flushes at the sound– no, no!

You disengage with a wet _pop!_ “Jesus! Keep it in your pants, jackass, we’re in public.”

“Then do you wanna take this somewhere private?” He pulls you closer, amiable and amused. That smile is infectious.

\- - -

“K” is for kindness. Shortly after you were stationed in Blood Gulch– and doesn’t that feel like a lifetime ago now– you were curled up in the rec room, reading a pamphlet on osteoporosis for the tenth time. The medical examiner gave it to you before you shipped out, along with a stern warning to eat your greens (you’re a fucking vegan) and there isn’t much to do in this canyon. There’s… nothing to do in this canyon.

Sarge announces himself with clearing his throat, and you look up to see him standing awkwardly before you, hands behind his back. You scramble to your feet and salute ("Sir!”) but he waves it off, nodding at the pamphlet in your hand.

“You, uh, you readin’ up on bone diseases again, son?”

“Yes, sir.”

He nods, eyes just over your left shoulder, biting the inside of his cheek. At length he huffs, turning attention to your face.

“No laughin’ matter, those.”

“No, sir.” And because you love spreading knowledge, and know he’s seen your medical records anyway, you elaborate. “Trans men are at greater risk of osteoporosis because of-”

“–Of changes in the hor-mones,” Sarge nods, and your eyebrows shoot up. From behind his back he produces a big white bottle of calcium pills. He extends them to you, arm a little stiff. “You take these, they’ll keep ya right.” You accept his gift, eyes wide, and he folds his arms gruffly.

"And there’s more fer, when you run out. I got lots saved up, on account-a I’m a trans man, m’self.”

You suck in a breath, clutching the bottle so hard your knuckles turn white. _“You are?”_

“Yep. Just so, you don’t feel, uh… Alone, all the way out here.”

\- - -

“L” is for leonine, and male lions are basically useless. 

They’re loud, scruffy, and sleep 20 hours a day. They can’t communicate for shit; getting into shouting matches that aren’t about anything. They don’t even help catch food. But, on the rare occasion something threatens their family: they blink awake, roll to their feet, and tear the shit out of it.

That’s Dexter Grif. That is Dexter Grif to a fuckin’ T.

He leapt– stupidly– onto the back of a superhuman killing machine to protect Sarge. When you needed a rescue, Grif ran your kidnapper over _with a fucking car_ to save you. He watched Wash like he was still a threat for weeks afterwards, particularly when he was around Donut. (And you, but you didn't notice.) 

And when he’s with Kaikaina? You love watching him with her, you really do. Grif fussing over her as she calls him _Dex_ , code switching between Hawaiian and English. They cuss each other out and in the same conversation he accepts her kisses and gives her hugs without a second’s hesitation. There’s this vulnerable spot he has for her, and he doesn’t try at all to hide it. He may not even be aware it shows.

You can feel that protective streak when you’re sleeping, or trying to sleep. It doesn’t matter the position. Grif is a first-rate big spoon, that cannot be denied; his arm feels cozy and safeguarding, cuddling you against a broad belly. When you lie on your back and he’s drooling on your chest, it’s like having a heavy, squishy shield; a self-appointed buffer. Sometimes you tuck into Dexter’s side, head on his collarbone, his shoulder; feeling his torso rise and fall in thick, slow breaths. His arm snug around you. The way he always keeps you close... it makes you feel many things. All of them are good.

\- - -

“M” is for migraine. Grif never got them before getting dragged off a cliff.

Dr. Grey keeps trying to get you both to come in for a psych eval, but there is no way that’s happening. The Reds have long and upstanding traditions of ignoring, half-assing and jimmyrigging things. And frankly, you just don’t feel that comfortable with her.

As it is, you notice when he closes his eyes too long; stiffens up; gets irritable. This can lead to many fun things- dizziness, nausea.. chocolate cravings. It’s not difficult finding an excuse to give Caboose as you’re dragging Grif back to your quarters.

You press firmly at his shoulders and seat him on the only used bunk. Grif rests his elbows on his knees, fingers rubbing at his scalp as you dim the room. You fetch him a water bottle from the computer desk. He mumbles thanks as you hand it over; takes a swig. He offers you a drink too, free hand still pressed to his head, but you tell him you don’t want his cooties- and that gets you a wan smirk. You clamber onto the bed behind him, and Dexter’s shoulders are coiled tight. You take your time unwinding them, grumbling about getting him into yoga.

\- - -

“N” is for nightmare. For you they’ve always been vague, uncomfortable and infrequent. You’ve been lost, and naked in public. You’ve had your teeth fall out, and been followed by something you never saw, and they were never scary enough to wake you up.

But the ones about Grif dying- dangling, begging for your help, slipping from your fingers into icy water. 

They are.

You wake up sweating, throw your legs off the bunk- fingers laced behind your neck, forehead pressed to knees- racing heart, hard to breathe- _what if, what if, what if?_ These episodes always, promptly, wake Grif up. And he always, promptly, shifts to your side. He murmurs into your shoulder; rubs your back in the dark. He squeezes your hand, reminds you, breathes with you.

Lungs expanding, chest stretching, almost painful. 

Releasing, shrinking, let it go. 

_Good._ Again. 


	3. O - S

“O” is for oxygen, which you don’t have access to right now but that’s fine. It’s cool down here, dense and slow and bright and everything is pink behind your eyelid. Breaching the water’s surface, you suck salty air and everything is blue; not a cloud in the sky. You bob beneath and up again, breaststroke through the water, making your way to Grif. He lounges on an air mattress, arms folded behind his head and sunglasses on his nose. Waves rock him back and forth gently as he sprawls his hairy legs in the water, soaking up the sun like a seal.

Nobody knows how to lounge in the sunshine as utterly, as perfectly, as Grif.

“Hey,” you smile, crossing your arms on the inflatable.

He cracks an eye behind his shades, smiles sideways at you. “Hey, babe.”

Hoisting yourself up further, you lean in for the kill and his grin blossoms wider, showing off his teeth. It’s languid and simple, the way he eases forward, meeting your mouth.

There’s a wolf whistle from the shore, and you both turn to glare at Donut. He slings a pack off his shoulders, and beside him Doc sets down a cooler. Grif slides his sunglasses down as he flips Frank off, and the pink soldier sticks his tongue out.

“It’s about time you showed up!” You call to them.

“Yeah, the store was out of aloe vera.” Doc straightens, pulling off his shirt. “Crazy, huh?”

Donut kneels and roots around in his bag. Grif pushes his shades into place and settles back against the mattress, making you both bob about. “What d’you need aloe vera for?” he asks, closing his eyes again.

“Oh ho ho,” Donut shakes his head, accepting the sunscreen Frank hands him. “I am gonna get so burned.”

“Tell me about it,” you grumble. Your pasty ass always burned easy, but now the sun reflects off your metal enhancements and takes it to a whole new level. Only along your right side, of course, so you get this really sexy yin-yang of burn severity going on... Summer can be a rough time for your self esteem.

\- - -

“P” is for paperwork.

You are Richard Simmons and you fucking. Love. Paperwork.

There’s a reason people say “get it in writing”; it’s structured, and engrossing, and makes things permanent. Furthermore, your love of bureaucratic hoop-jumping has really worked in your favor- like when you need to type up reports, or fill out request forms, and take up other people’s work to show how useful you can be.

It came in handy in school, where you worked slow and tested poorly outside of math, but never passed up extra credit. And it came in handy when you changed your name- you wanted everything squared away before enlisting, and it was a lot of pencil pushing, but that’s your time to shine.

That very topic comes up one night over a couple beers, and Sarge tells you one of his _favorite_ memories is from decades ago, when he closed his old bank account and opened one at a credit union in his new legal name. _It’s the little things in life, Simmons,_ he tells you. _The little victories. Yessir. You know I met my wife at that there credit union?_

He leans back in his chair, looks down the bottle. Victories are different now, he says; not bigger, just different.

\- - -

“Q” is for quiver, and not the kind that’s full of arrows.

Grif’s a pain in the ass, but one thing you appreciate most about him is how easy the man is to please. You know Grif’s weaknesses; walks on the beach, surprise gifts, his throat and stomach, to name a few. This information is yours to exploit and, oh Richard, exploit you do. Some peanut butter on a snack cake, necking on the couch, bam. Grif is thoroughly wooed.

But to get that intel you had to trade, and now he knows your weak spots, too. He’ll prop his head in his hand and fire off compliments- you look hot, Simmons; you’re so damn smart, Simmons; something you did was fuckin’ cool, Simmons; I really dig you, Simmons. You’re minding your own business when he hugs you from behind, nuzzles your ears. Murmurs praise into them. Runs his hands up and down your sides and it’s fucking cheating, is what it is.

You tell him he’s pretty good at this- that gets you a laugh. It bubbles out of him like he just can’t help it, and it’s a shame such a sound is wasted on this sarcastic asshole. He tells you of course he is, he’s got practice with you- 

“Is that what you call it?”

“Shut up, Simmons.” 

Grif prattles on. Says he’s always liked sex, but didn’t feel like _having_ sex, if that makes sense. You say _I guess_ as he rolls the two of you over. 

You gain your balance, return to taunting. “So what’re you doing here then?” 

“I dunno dude, why don’t you tell me?”

“Well I sure don’t want to twist your arm.”

He grins, big warm hands on your thighs, says he likes _you_ and lust just... followed. He’s not sure when it happened but he wasn’t expecting it. Definitely wasn’t. You snarl _thanks_ and there’s that laugh; it bounces you up and down.

\- - -

“R” is for relatives. You learn quickly that as far as Kaikaina is concerned, banging her brother gives you sibling status. She gives you enthusiastic hugs and kisses and calls on the phone, and tags you in vegan casserole recipes she says sound gross to her but hey, maybe you’ll like it. She shows you pictures she has saved on her cell, of Kai and Dex when they were kids. Fondness floods you with unexpected force, looking at these; missing teeth and scrunched up noses and colorful Band-Aids. High schoolers in baseball caps, with acne on their faces and metal on their teeth. You note how tired mini-Grif seems; there are circles under his eyes, a weight to his shoulders. It’s a weird reminder he was essentially a drop out, working two jobs under the table. Paying bills in their mom’s name.

Kaikaina is bright and colorful and bursting with questions. She asks you what your favorite movies are; do you like camping; what’s the grossest thing you’ve ever eaten? Do you know how to get nail polish off tile, and is Simmons your real name? At first it’s overwhelming, but she gets easier to talk to each time you see her. You ask her about gymnastics, and tell her you like her toe rings and you drink lemonade together in lawn chairs. 

Grif’s out, unfortunately. So you’re the one sitting on her bunk, head in your hand and listening awkwardly as Kai cries about her girlfriend breaking up with her. You wrack your brain for a way to stop the waterworks (what do girls _like_?) and recall her going on about some frozen yogurt place in town. Leaning forward like you would to not startle a small animal, you pat her knee and invite her there, your treat?

Her whole wet, puffy face lights up.

She goes for kiwis and pineapple, Pop Rocks and sour gummy worms, while you just pile on the strawberries. Hell yeah. 

You’ve worked with your squad to varying degrees of success but never palled around with a girl before; it’s... different, but not _too_ different from the guys. You sit at the bistro table outside, she starts a fruit war with your spoons as catapults and it’s actually… really nice.

\- - -

“S” is for siestas; they’re a tough thing to beat, sprawling out under trees, curling up under sheets. Grif claims afternoon naps are good for you, and you think he may actually be right about that- particularly when they involve him. And of course, they always do, because the day Dexter Grif passes up a nap-date will come the Thursday after hell freezes over.

You're a busy guy and this doesn't come naturally, so sometimes you doze and sometimes you just cat nap, fading in and out. Today is the latter- it's at least as nice as sleeping, maybe better. You hear Grif's soporific snoring; feel the coziness of shared body heat; enjoy these _obscenely_ comforting arms heavy around you. You could grow old doing this. You want to grow old doing this.

You wiggle around in Grif’s embrace to face him, breaking free of your big spoon and he makes a drowsy, confused noise, squinting at you. You slide your arms around his shoulders, press your body against his and he relaxes; lets his breath out slowly as his eyes slide shut again. You tuck your head under his chin as he adjusts his arms to this position, and you can feel his heartbeat; rest your hand against his throat and feel his pulse. He’s so warm, how does he do this- you press your chilled feet to his calves and his face wrinkles in disgust. Craning your neck, you peck his mouth and he hums, accepting this apology.


	4. T - W

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you SO much to everybody supporting this fic!
> 
> Disclaimer: All Hawaiian is Googled D:

“T” is for toast, and you’re scraping off the burnt bits into the sink. You’re in your pajamas and so if Grif- if t-shirts and boxers count, anyway. Your partner is making coffee and he keeps sneaking little glances at you, thinking you don’t notice.

Exasperated, you cease dragging the knife, and lean your wrists on the counter. “Alright, what is it?” you ask, turning to face him.

“Mmm?” He raises his eyebrows innocently, dismounting the pot from its machine and pouring a mug.

“You keep looking at me.”

Grif smirks, adding creamer. Leaning a hip against the counter, he eyes you up and down. “What, can you blame me?” There’s a surprised quiet, and you take in a breath. Then you’re sputtering _the_ dorkiest laugh, heat crawling up your neck. Grif gives an exaggerated wink, keeping his eyes on yours, and takes a sip from his mug. He immediately chokes, nose scrunching up.

“Fuck, that’s hot!”

You’re face is warm, and you smile, ducking your head. “Not as hot as you.”

“You frisky son of a bitch,” he marvels. “Feelin’ lucky, nerd?”

He strides to you, coffee in hand, and gets right in your personal space. Folding your arms, you straighten to full height, smiling down at him. You hesitate a moment.

“I am lucky,” you say softly.

His face goes from amused to slack, eyes widening in surprise. 

He's quiet, for once.

“...Cof _fee_?” He offers his mug to you, voice cracking.

\- - -

“U” is for unexpected. 

You have the day off, miraculously. So far you’ve spent it sleeping in ‘til 10:00, reading Jensen’s reports in your underwear, and hopping on a Mongoose behind Grif as he pulls on a pair of goggles.

He’s never actually said it, but you know he loves going for pointless drives to no-where.

It’s still weird, having stop lights and pedestrians and laws- it’s weirder still seeing Grif accommodate them. Your cruises used to be hurdling across dusty canyons and off makeshift ramps, shrieking and laughing. How long have you been out of touch with society? God. It’s a miracle those years in isolation hadn’t turned the whole Blood Gulch crew into wildmen.

It’s nice, being in civvies; wearing your glasses instead of a single contact lens. (What if they fell off in the middle of fighting and shit? You’d have to take off your helmet to fix them.) The sensation of cold wind on your skin as Grif races out of the city reminds you of being on leave in Hawaii. 

Arms wrapped firmly around his waist, you're anchored, but it’s still hair-raising being so exposed at high speeds- exhilarating too. Excitememt bubbles up in your chest, heart pumping fast and you want to laugh at nothing; laugh 'cause you're happy and afraid. Man, when did you turn into some half-assed adrenaline junkie? ...You don't know. You just know there’s something great about going _really fast._

The Mongoose hums beneath you, trees fly past and your t-shirt clings to your skin. Tightening your grip, you lean in close to Grif’s ear, his hair hitting your face.

“Careful, honey!”

He stiffens in your grasp, straightens his back. There’s a beat of silence, wind whistling in your ears. He makes as though he’s about to glance at you over his shoulder, but thinks better of it, keeping his eyes on the road.

“Y-yeah!” He hollers over the noise. “You bet, babe.”

\- - -

“V” is for Virgo.

Donut’s still new to Blood Gulch. It was a little odd at first; a stranger sleeping in the bunk room, poking a bottle blonde head over his sheets and whispering _Pssst! Simmons! Wanna play Never Have I Ever?_ He puts ylang-ylang oil in the laundry soap and has the shittiest taste in magazines you’ve ever seen in your life, but he’s been been nothing if not pleasant to you.

The morning ritual has changed a bit since Donut arrived; instead of just you telling Grif to get his ass out of bed, now it’s you AND Donut. He’s much sweeter about it, going on about breakfast and how great today’s gonna be. The once peaceful showers are filled with his singing, and this ball of cheeriness should be really fucking irritating but he’s not. Maybe you’re just that desperate for human contact outside of Sarge and Grif.

Sarge gets up at what would be before dawn if this shitty planet had nights. As it was, he’s been up and ready for hours, so it’s just you and your fellow privates at the table. Donut has his hands cupped around a mug of tea, elbows on the surface. He glances Grif up and down, once, and says, “Taurus.”

Grif doesn’t look up from his breakfast cereal. “Gesundheit.”

“Nooo, silly, Taurus! The star sign?”

“Oh, yeah. I guess.”

Donut wakes up the tablet beside him, and starts running his fingers across the screen. “Want me to read your horoscope?”

“Why not.” Grif shrugs, reaching for the orange juice- but you snatch it away! Just in time. You narrow your eyes, shaking your head. You push an empty cup towards him. Folding his arms on the table, he gives you a look of utmost contempt. At length he reaches out, and takes the cup in hand. You relinquish the juice. Your jaw drops as he grabs it and swigs right from the jug.

_“Oh my go-”_

“It says **here** ,” Donut interrupts you, tilts his chin nice and high with his eyes on the screen, “That you should wait before making any important decisions involving money today, and it would do you a lot of good to have an honest conversation expressing your feelings.” He sips his tea, and furrows his brow at Grif. “Grif, are you not expressing your feelings?”

“Yeah, Grif, why don’t you share with the class.”

Grif gazes pensively into the juice carton.

“Alright, I’ll come clean.” He looks across the table to you, somber and sighing. “Simmons, I’ve always found you a tremendous pain in the ass. Donut, we’ve only just met, but I feel like you’ve been a pain in my ass my whole life.”

“Awww,” Donut coos, and you can’t tell if he’s serious. “You too, buddy! Simmons, you want your horoscope?”

“You know there’s no way that stuff’s real, right?”

“Come oooon.”

You settle back in your chair, gesturing vaguely. “Alright, shoot.”

Donut sings a triumphant little _Ooh, ooh!_ , picking up the tablet. “Sign?” he asks, poking the screen.

“Virgo.”

“Virgo the Virgin, alriiiight.”

“Wait, the virgin?” Grif interjects gleefully, and heat rushes to your face. “Maybe this stuff _is_ real after all!”

“Shut up,” you snap, but the look on his face just gets smug at seeing your blush. Goddamn it.

\- - -

“W” is for words.

Parked at Armonia’s city limits, you lean against the passenger door, propping a cheek on your knuckles.

“ _Ko'i'i._ ” Grif continues.

“ _Ko'i'i._ ”

“Good. _Makemake au ko'i'i_.”

“ _Makemake, au ko'i'i._ ” Your tongue feels thick and clumsy.

He nods sagely.

You lean forward, away from your hand. “What does it mean?”

“‘I like boners.’”

You slouch back. “I’m not even surprised by that.”

Grif shifts his position, holds out his hands. _Okay, okay, try this…_ And you do. You stumble your way through every phrase he gives you, slowly, and it’s a marvel how _guttural_ English sounds compared to this. You listen to Grif’s voice, to the quick and easy way he speaks Hawaiian and it’s… Pleasant. You kind of wish you heard it more often.

Everything’s different now; the war, the planet, Grif, _you_. You sit in the Warthog and talk with him so long, about everything and nothing, the sun moves across the sky and shadows lengthen along the ground. It’s not the first time; won’t be the last. And it feels so damn good to still have this.

You’re bickering about the latest _Matrix_ remake; you’re defending the excessive CGI. At length, you realize there’s been a change in Grif. He looks perfectly calm, arms folded on the steering wheel, but he’s stiff. He watches your mouth with pupils blown wide. His chest moves with breaths just barely too deep.

There’s something pulled taught in him. Something you want to snap.

You’re not an overly confident man, but… You look back at Hungry Eyes over there and decide, fuck it. Fake it ‘til you make it.

Trying not to smirk, you keep talking normally and grab a water bottle out of the cup holder. His eyes flicker down to it as you screw off the cap, and you bring it to your mouth slowly, making it obvious where you’re going with this. His mouth twitches, a dark flush blooming on his cheeks. 

The bottle touches your bottom lip and you hesitate, sly smile showing your teeth. He’s holding his breath, and wrapping your lips around the nozzle, you run your fingers along that tension, pluck the strings of him, for no reason but the way Grif’s fingers move to clench the wheel. Indulgently, you tip the bottle up- heats pools in your face, your belly, at the utter _want_ he directs at you, watching your throat as you swallow. His jaw falls open, just enough for him to take a shuddery breath, rubber wheel squeaking under armored fists.

It’s too much- you’re not this savvy- you lick you lips, screwing the cap back on. Heart thudding in your chest; when did you start breathing heavy, too? You lean against your seat, staring at him and he stares back, looking frazzled.

“Do you want me, Dex?”

Grif gasps, and in the second before he catches it, he looks like he’s in _pain_. “Jesus _fuck_ , Simmons.” There’s an aggression there, a heat. “Fuck _yeah_ , I do. I’m gonna fuh… I just… I just wanna… Ugh.” He pinches the bridge of his nose, slows his breaths. “You’re gonna kill me if you keep this up.”

You swallow thickly, finding your voice. “You know, the French term for orgasm- _la petite mort_ \- means ‘the little death’.”

“You’re such a _nerd_ , oh my god.”

He turns his head to look at you, and there’s so much fondness there it catches you off guard. He holds up the keys, and they jingle together. “I can take you back to our room; show you a good time.”

You shrug, dopey grin on your face. “There’s always here.”

“In a Warthog? Outside? What are we, like, 20?” He reaches an arm across the back of your seat.

“Hey, if you’re not game, old man, we can head back.”

“Ohh ho ho, Simmons,” Grif drops the keys with a heavy _clink_. “I am very much game. Get your ass over here and I’ll show you.”


End file.
